SYNOPSIS:

Princess Perripraxis not only has to find a fiancé—and fast—she’s got to find one who doesn’t mind that her “no makeup” face has green and purple scales. Otherwise, Daddy Dearest has plans that don’t include Perri’s compliance. Candidate Number One: Her sexy human best friend, Brandt.

Bartender Brandt Turner didn’t need all those years in the army to teach him never to leave a man behind. Or an alien princess in need of a pretend fiancé. If she needs someone to play the lovesick fool to convince her dad to let her stay on Earth, well then, he’ll let the world think Cupid finally took him out.

But Perri’s father has no intention of playing nice—and he’s not above cruel and unusual alien torture to make things go his way. But Brandt is willing to complete the mission…however far he has to go.

Excerpt from HIS FAKE ALIEN FIANCÉE:

He reached over and took her hand. “Whoever it was in that dream? They are never going to hurt you again. Never. I don’t care who they are or how many soldiers they have at their back or whatever type of crazy alien monster they fight for fun on their home planet. They don’t get to hurt you ever again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” She sniffled and his chest tightened. “Brandt?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you stay with me? Just until I fall back to sleep? You don’t—”

His heart began to thump painfully at the fear that lingered in her voice. This was a bad idea. Being her friend

meant not getting into a position where his inner asshole could take over. He needed to keep that part of himself on a leash, and climbing into bed with a beautiful, vulnerable alien princess wearing nothing but one of his T-shirts and a pair of teeny-tiny little shorts? That was a road straight to hell for his intentions.

But whatever was waiting for her in that dream? It had her scared. Terrified her. And if that meant he had to man up and be a big damn hero? He’d do it, and he’d keep his thoughts as pure as an altar boy at the same time.

Thankfully, he was pretty sure altar boys were just as pervy as other kids, they just kept it under wraps. And he could do that.

“Budge over,” he said, and squeezed her hand again.

“And keep your snoring to a minimum. Some of us need to get our beauty sleep.”

“I don’t snore,” she retorted, chuckling.

“No, you just do chain saw imitations in your sleep,” he teased as he lifted the sheet and slid into his suddenly-much too-small bed beside her.

She rolled over so that she was facing him, and he slid his arm underneath her neck, pulling her close so he could cradle her.

“Brandt?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for this,” she said as she settled her head on his chest.

“For cuddling you? No problem. I’m a man who loves his cuddles. Serious cuddle addict right here. I should be the one thanking you. And just so you know, tomorrow I’m going to want to sit down over tea and discuss our feelings and coordinate manicures. And pedicures. Oh, and I’m so going to need my hair braided. You can’t let me down now.”

“Asshole,” she squeaked.

He stared down at her and knew his mouth was hanging open in surprise at the insult. He’d never even heard Perri say “crap” before. “Was that your first cuss word?”

“Maybe. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Not a thing.” He smiled as he stared up at the ceiling and tried his hardest not to pet her hair. “I was just curious.”

“Brandt?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not really going to make me drink Earth tea and paint my nails tomorrow, are you? I’m really not good with that whole polish thing. It seeps through my outer skin and stains my tentacles and clogs my pores and it really itches.”

“Fine.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “I guess we can skip that part, if it’s that big of an issue. But I want you to know without the talking and the tea and the manicures this now feels just a little bit cheap and tawdry. But I’ll endure.”

“Thank you, Brandt.”

He gave up his resistance and brought his right hand across his chest to smooth her hair while his left hand rested on her lower back. “No problem, sweetheart.”

ABOUT PATRICIA EIMER

Patricia Eimer is a suburban mom who has days where she feels like she’s barely hanging on. She currently lives in eastern Pennsylvania with her two wonderful kids and a husband that learned the gourmet art of frozen pizzas to give her more time to write. When she’s not writing—or shuttling her children to a hundred different places a day– she can be found trying to cook (and sometimes blowing up hard boiled eggs), reading and arguing with her dogs about plot points. Most days the Beagle wins but the Dalmatian is in close second and her mastiff puppy is making a break for the inside. Patricia meanwhile is a longshot fourth.

When she’s not writing she can be found on Facebook, at her website (www.patriciaeimer.com) or blogging about her attempts at cooking and her complete inability to craft as a contributor to the Suburban Flail Blog (www.suburbanflail.com). She is also a connoseiur of really bad science jokes.